


the third chance

by orchid_spiral



Category: Combat Zone Wrestling, EVOLVE Wrestling, Professional Wrestling, Progress Wrestling, Total Nonstop Action Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Horror, Crime Fighting, Horror, Medical, Multi, Multiple Personalities, Mystery, Original setting, Surgery, bio punk, boarding school AU (in part), inspired by twig, mental surgery, mentions of torture, open skull surgery, pseudo-nobility system, total negation of patients' rights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 16:54:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11189373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchid_spiral/pseuds/orchid_spiral
Summary: It only took a few seconds for Seth to completely destroy his own life. Now he's an outcast, left with nothing, and all he can do is try to rebuild himself, no matter what.





	the third chance

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! *waves* This is what I've been working on for the past... while. It's inspired by wildbow's third serial, Twig, which I strongly recommend. The setting is my own creation, however, and I've done my best to explain as much as I can without getting too info-dumpy. Before reading, I feel I need to warn you- this is a dark, dark world where fucked-up things are inflicted on innocents. I've done my best to tag appropriately, but if I've failed, please let me know so I can fix it. Also, I have to be honest- I genuinely have no clue where this story is going and I have about one more chapter down as a strong possibility. I can't guarantee that I'll come up with a fixed plot or more chapters- at least, not any time soon. I'm sorry. Despite that, I sincerely hope you enjoy this, and thank you for reading.

It’s the sight of the carriage, more than anything else, that makes Seth realise exactly how bad he’s fucked up.  
  
And what makes the whole situation even more unfair, in hindsight, is that up until the fight, he hadn’t done a damn thing that could be called illegal.  
  
All right, yes, it’s true that he and his friends- Dean and Roman, in this case- had once again been half-walking, half-stumbling down the well-lit streets of Stamford, barely half an hour before midnight. But, as Seth is wont to remind his friends, Stamford- unlike most of the crown cities of the Empire of America- does not have a curfew. So while anyone on the streets after ten-thirty (or ten, if their neighbours are particularly strict or anal) who isn’t a member of the emergency services or working the night shift will probably be showered with disapproval and invasive comments from the neighbours, there is not a single damn law that forbids them from doing so.  
  
Of course, Seth knew when he agreed to stay out late that his father would be _extremely unamused_ , but then again, the number of times when his father actually approved of Seth or his actions could be counted on one hand with fingers to spare, so he wasn’t particularly inclined to give a fuck.  
  
And while it was true that Seth and his friends were trading swigs from a bottle of whisky as they made their way through the streets, having imbibed more earlier, there was nothing illegal about that either. All of them were seventeen, the legal age for drinking, and had their ID to prove it. There was no law against people of the legal age possessing alcohol in public, or even against people drinking in public. The laws only forbade people giving alcohol to minors, or people being drunk and disorderly in public- and while Seth and his friends had been trading barbed comments and laughter, they were very careful to keep the noise down.

  
And while it was also true that Seth and his friends had come across some students from their school that they had something of a rivalry with, the conversation hadn’t gone beyond jeering, insults and some mock-bravado… until one of the fuckers had decided to throw a punch.  
  
The fight was a typical mess- combatants colliding with their allies, punches hitting the wrong people, and one unfortunate managing to hit a wall instead- when the one thing everyone had forgotten about occurred: the officers arrived.  
  
Stamford was a wealthy city even for a crown city, and its government had invested more cash in its officers than in some of the other cities Seth had lived in. He’d seen officers who were little more than enormous slabs of meat, roughly shaped into something that only vaguely resembled a human. They were used mostly in the kind of cities where brute force was needed more than finesse, and those officers tended to ‘apprehend’ suspects by simply knocking them out or pushing them down and sitting on them.  
  
Other cities- generally the ones where the local branch of the Families had an interest in crime fighting, or in public service- had officers that could release clouds of gas that would knock people out before more damage could be done, or officers that could recognise when someone was injured or unwell and signal the closest medics. Mostly, cities that weren’t so fortunate had the roving squads of officers constantly accompanied by a supervisor, but not all of them had the manpower for it. Of course, it was usually whoever wound up crushed under the officers’ ‘feet’ that wound up paying for it, but the lack of fucks given by those in authority was profound, so few would actually raise an official complaint.  
  
Stamford’s officers at least looked humanoid. That is, they had a torso and two legs and two arms and a head… all right, a head-shaped lump. Since they didn’t require a brain or eyes or a nose or a mouth or ears, there wasn’t really a reason for them to have a head in the first place, but apparently whoever had made them was feeling thorough. The ‘heads’ were smooth and blank, the pink-green artificial flesh unmarred- perhaps they were fresh off the slab. Each hand had seven long, thin fingers that constantly twitched and tried to grab, seeking something to hold- like teenage fighters.  
  
The officers had broken up the fight in a matter of seconds. Each finger concealed a needle and small amount of tranquiliser, as the would-be combatants found out as soon as an officer got its hand on them. The officers hefted each limp body easily, carrying the teenagers out of the alley and placing them in a pile on the sidewalk. The officers then remained still, awaiting orders until their supervisors arrived- two middle-aged cops in the crisp blue and black uniform of Stamford’s police.  
  
After the cops had reviewed the situation and the evidence, all seven combatants had been half-dragged, half-carried over to the police wagon. As was standard for American police vehicles, it was biological. The Stamford version was a solid ‘box’ of some kind of artificial flesh, mounted on a frame made out of a black substance that looked like and had the same consistency of a cross between solid wood and steel. It had six wheels, all made from the same substance as the frame, and a harness that allowed a carrier to be hitched to it.  
  
The inside wasn’t much to look at- solid walls of grey-pink flesh, dotted with singular cuffs that, when fastened around a wrist or ankle, applied a mild sedative to prevent prisoners from trying to escape or hurt someone else- or themselves. Once the would-be combatants were securely fastened, they were taken to the police station. And it was there that the trouble had really started.  
  
As the patriarch of the Rollins family and the owner of a shipping company that had branches all over the Empire, Seth’s father was… well. He called it being careful and thinking ahead, Seth called it paranoia. It was entirely possible that they were both correct, but neither would ever admit it.  
  
Either way, he’d had the family doctor give each of his children- and Seth, begrudgingly- some inoculations against things like knockout drugs and pepper spray. It was less a magic shield and more of a resistance, something that would give him an edge, rather than a weapon or a get out of jail free card. Unfortunately, it had worked against him: he’d woken up earlier than the others, while the cops were processing them all. And he’d woken up only to see a cop pulling the neck of Dean’s shirt down to examine the scars on his back. Knowing how much Dean hated people looking at or talking about the scars, Seth had launched himself at the cop and landed several punches before he was even fully awake.  
  
And that was it. He’d doomed himself in less than ten seconds, without even being fully lucid. A semi-drunken fight was one thing, but attacking a cop without provocation- that was a serious crime, especially since he was supposed to be sedated at the time. Oh, his father could probably have got him out of it, especially if he’d asked one of his lawyers to help… but he hadn’t, and he didn’t, and Seth wasn’t stupid enough to think that he would. After all, it’s not like he’d ever actually liked Seth, and such a clean, easy solution to the problem of his youngest son must have pleased the old bastard a lot.  
  
Of his fellow combatants, Roman and one of the assholes they’d run into were the only ones to walk free. Roman’s family could afford the legal fees, and they actually cared about him, so he was out of the cells before anyone could blink. And as envious as Seth was, he was glad that at least one of them was going to be all right. The other asshole had managed to avoid hitting anyone, so he wasn’t on the hook for anything more than a strict warning.  
  
So there they are: Dean, Seth, and three belligerent dickheads, all on the benches, waiting for the transport- and, from there, their sentence.  
  
Of course, they aren’t the only ones. The collection is fascinating: everyone from huge, muscular men and women who might be brawlers or muggers or common murderers; a few dressed in clothes of a visibly better make- thieves, maybe, or drug dealers. There’s one guy who shakes so much he practically vibrates, but nobody’s taking any notice of him, or trying to talk to him. Reassurance isn’t going to help, not when being completely fucked is a definite.  
  
There’s also an older woman who looks like a housewife, who stares at anyone glancing her way with a mixture of pride and defiance; some younger teenagers who still look drugged- and most disturbing, a girl who looks like she’s barely ten. Either she’s especially precocious, or she got royally fucked by her parents.  
  
Seth doesn’t try to talk to anyone. He leans forward, hands clasped, arms resting on his thighs, trying not to think.  
  
In the back of his head, a little voice is continually whispering along the same line- the ill-fated idea that there still could be hope, that maybe he isn’t completely fucked. That maybe it’ll turn out to be a dream. Maybe his father will have a sudden attack of conscience. Maybe it’s a test of some kind. Maybe-  
  
“Seth,” Dean says.  
  
Seth flinches, jolted out of his reverie. “Huh?”  
  
Dean fixes him with an emotionless stare. “You really hit the cop?”  
  
Seth nods, involuntarily glancing down at his hands. Everyone was helpfully given a stamp on each hand when their fate was finalised, detailing their crimes for all to see. He glances around quickly, and isn’t at all surprised to see that nearly everyone is concealing their hands, apart from the housewife, whose hands are in full display.  
  
She has the same stamp on each hand: a stark rendition of the symbol of life- a black circle with four white dots, one at each cardinal point. But the symbol has a thick grey line through it, meaning that she killed someone. No way of telling who, though- the stamps don’t get that detailed. She obviously doesn’t feel that it was a crime, though. Maybe she’d murdered a cheating husband, or an abusive one. Maybe she’d murdered someone who’d tried to hurt her child. Or maybe there’s a different explanation altogether. It’s not like Seth can tell.  
  
Seth has different stamps: on his left hand, a crude bottle and a closed fist, to mean a drunken brawl. Dean would have the same on both hands. On his right hand, he has the same closed fist, but it was accompanied by a shield, the symbol of the Empire’s police force.  
  
Dean shakes his head, frustrated. “ _Why?”_  
  
Seth glances around, inwardly sighing. Some of the other prisoners are quietly talking, some are lost in their own worlds, but he knows that others are listening in. His instinct is to tell Dean later.  
  
But there isn’t going to be a later.  
  
And honestly, the likelihood that he’ll ever see Dean again is pretty fucking small.  
  
So… fuck it.  
  
He lowers his voice, on principle, but he doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes.  
  
“He was trying to see your back.”  
  
He doesn’t need to see Dean’s face to see the reaction. He freezes like a rabbit who’s seen a dog, not even breathing as he processes it.  
  
Seth can’t blame him. Dean only told him how he got the scars once, when he was so drunk he couldn’t stand, and once he’d sobered up, he had clammed up tighter than a newborn oyster. Seth hadn’t raised the subject again.  
  
It takes a few seconds for Dean to manage a reply. “So you…”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Seth turns away, staring at the floor, trying not to think.  
  
Dean’s hand lands on his wrist, gripping it tightly, and Seth looks up, startled.  
  
The look in Dean’s eyes is hard to interpret. Some shock, a lot of disbelief… and a sort of surprise, the kind of surprise someone might feel when they realise that yes, their friend really did just destroy their own life for them, unasked. There’s something else, too, but Seth can’t quite decipher it, and it’s not exactly the right moment to ask Dean to clarify.  
  
He opens his mouth and closes it a second later, evidently unsure of what to say. Seth isn’t sure what he’d say even if he was asked to reply, so he says nothing, taking what might be the last opportunity he has to be with his friend.  
  
It’s barely a minute later when the cops turn up. Each of the prisoners were also supplied with an armband of thick red matter when they were stamped; Seth forgot about his as soon as it was fastened around his arm, though he remembers when he sees one of the cops gesture toward a prisoner’s arm. They were cautioned against trying to remove them, and informed that the armbands would inject a knockout drug in case anyone tried to fight back or make a run for it. They could be bluffing, but Seth really doubts it. Either way, it’s an efficient way to make everyone compliant enough that nobody resists when they’re led outside.  
  
It’s the sight of the carriages outside that makes Seth grind to a halt.  
  
He was expecting a carrier- a living box like the police wagon, maybe, or one of the giant animals used by the Families, given their destination…  
  
…though thinking about their destination makes him want to throw up and pass out at the same time.  
  
Instead, he’s faced with iron carriages that look like something out of a history book… or would, if they hadn’t been thoroughly modified. The history book carriages didn’t look like they could hold more than a few people- four at the most, not counting the driver, and they were usually pulled by horses. These carriages are much bigger, able to hold… six? Eight? people at a time- with no windows, it’s hard to guess, though there’s still the space for the driver- but the front has a large mass of metal that probably contains some kind of power source.  
  
In short, there’s nothing at all biological about it. Wholly artificial.  
  
Seth doesn’t even realise that he’s shaking until one of the cops snaps something he doesn’t really hear. He pulls in a deep breath and blinks hard, trying to not freak out… too badly.  
  
But that’s nearly impossible. Looking at the _unnatural_ carriages brings home just how much he’s managed to fuck up, along with the very unpleasant realisation that he’s done. Nothing can help him. Nobody _will_ help him, in fact.  
  
He looks around for Dean, frantic, but Dean’s already being half-pulled, half-walked to one of the other carriages. Seth cries out his name, desperate, but in seconds, Dean is inside the carriage. Gone. Lost.  
  
_Fuck._  
  
At the command of one of the cops, Seth stumbles toward the carriage in a dream, barely registering what’s happening. He only comes back to reality when he’s pushed down into one of the seats inside the carriage.

The interior of the carriage is simple: two rows of four seats, facing each other. The seat closest to the door on the right side is occupied by a stern-faced cop, as is the seat furthest away from the door on the left side. The six prisoners are all handcuffed- not tethered, handcuffed- to a chain, leaving their hands in full view of everyone else.

Seth’s the third one inside. The other two occupying his row are one of the big muscular men, whose stamps indicate that he grievously assaulted someone, and the young girl, whose stamps show… arson. Jesus. Both of them look at Seth’s stamps, and the reaction varies- the girl looks a little scared, and the man just grunts something under his breath.

As the other row is filled, everyone takes note of their stamps: the first man has an open hand- a thief. The second, a woman, also has the sign for a murder. But the third draws everyone’s attention. He’s a middle-aged man, someone completely ordinary, with brown hair and brown eyes, a smile on his face and the same two stamps on each hand. The first is an eye- a spy. The second is the symbol of the country he was caught spying for. Seth was expecting England or Mexico, but instead, he sees a maple leaf. Canada.

The enemy.

As the other prisoners see the stamp, the atmosphere changes. People go from being afraid to being pissed off in seconds- eyes tighten, fists clench. Seth stares at the spy, who just smiles, brazenly proud of his actions, like he’s not about to be interrogated and subjected to a horrible, but wholly deserved fate.

Maybe he doesn’t know. But how could he not know? Given how much the citizens of the Empire hate spies and anyone thought to be loyal to the enemy, he can’t not know that being torn apart by outraged citizens is the best of his potential deaths.

The second cop climbs into the carriage and slams the door shut. A second later, the carriage begins to move, speeding up until it’s moving at a smooth pace that’s faster than Seth is used to.

If it wasn’t for the fact that the entire thing goes against everything that the Empire of America stands for, he could almost get behind this carriage. But as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he shudders and shakes his head, wanting it out of his mind as quickly as possible. He’s a loyal citizen, and always has been. Nothing like the bastard across from him.

As if the man somehow heard his thought, he directs a grin at Seth that makes Seth look away, almost ashamed to be the focus of the man’s attention. He stares intently at the floor, so focused that he almost misses the snarl from the man who committed assault.

“…scum like _you._ ”

“I don’t know what I expected,” the spy drawls. “Here you are, about to be cut up and turned into parts for delusional people to play with, and you’re angrier at me than at them. _I’m_ not the one who’s going to take you apart, am I?”

His accent is pure Boston, and the rage that abruptly alights in Seth’s heart burns so hard it feels like it’s consuming him. The man isn’t some imported Canadian, he’s an actual American, though obviously it doesn’t mean much to him anymore. He’s not just a spy, he’s a traitor.

He bites back his response, clenching his fist hard enough to hurt.

One of the others doesn’t, though: “At least we’re still _loyal_ , you piece of shit scumbag.”

“Quiet,” one of the officers barks.

“And what’s loyalty going to do for you?” the traitor asks. “Do you really think that whoever turns you into some twisted clusterfuck that can’t even be called human is really going to care that you’re a loyal subject?”

“I said, _quiet,_ ” the officer snaps.

The traitor ignores him. “Go on, tell your precious Families how loyal you are. See where that gets you, you stupid-”

“Right, that’s it,” the officer says. He doesn’t seem to move, but Seth feels a small part of his arm beneath the armband grow very cold for an instant. For a few seconds, nothing seems to happen, and then the world slowly begins to lose its colour. As the seconds pass, Seth feels as though he’s fallen off a cliff, the world fading around him.

The last thing he hears is one of the officers saying derisively, “I don’t know _why_ we don’t just knock the sheep out at the start-”

 

 

 

As he comes back to himself, he isn’t sure what to think. He should be freaking out. He should be worried. He should be frantically trying to take in everything he can. But he isn’t.

Strange.

Instead, he simply waits, taking in each new piece of information as it appears to him.

  
It’s pitch black, and he thinks he’s opened his eyes, but he can’t tell the difference- if there is one. He can’t seem to move his fingers. He can’t open his mouth very far- enough to breathe. There’s something sticking into various parts of his body- one on each side of his neck, two in each arm, three on his legs, four on his torso, all evenly spaced in vertical rows. Something’s holding him in place, and he can’t get free.  
  
So, lacking any other options, he tries to deduce what’s happening.  
  
He was in the carriage, en route to the part-time palace, part-time manor, full-time lab that houses the local branch of the Families. He and the other prisoners were knocked out. Therefore he’s probably in the House.  
  
Like everyone who grew up in the Empire, Seth studied the basic medical texts and took the required exams, but none of them covered being upright, awake, and having _things_ sticking into you without anyone else being there. So that’s no help.  
  
He has no idea what day it is, or what time it is, or whether he’s pre-op, post-op or even during-op, though that last one is unlikely. He has no method of finding out. He… can’t really do anything, as such.  
  
So all he can do is wait.  
  
Time passes. He’s not sure how much time, especially since he can feel something occasionally flowing into him from whatever the hell it is that’s in his body. But on the plus side, whatever it is has also taken away his curiosity, boredom and everything else that would ordinarily make waiting hell for him.  
  
So he simply exists, listening to the sound of his own breathing, the thud of his pulse, and little else.  
  
The lights come on so abruptly that if he could talk, he would have sworn loudly. Instead, he sucks in a breath and blinks hard, his eyes taking a while to adjust. As soon as they do, he starts taking in his surroundings.  
  
The room he’s in is around the size of a large hall, and it’s been divided into two halves by an enormous pane of transparent glass that ends shortly before one of the walls, making a natural doorway. He’s been awkwardly placed right alongside the glass, as if whoever put him there just plonked him down wherever. From what he can tell, both sides of the room have been outfitted with the same equipment. They’re both more than fully equipped for surgery, with the tables, carts of equipment, and everything else he’d expect to see there. In fact, there’s quite a few things he can’t identify. Given the huge amounts of space and the transparent wall, however, he guesses they might be meant for teaching, so a large number of students could watch a surgery up close without getting in the way.  
  
There’s only a few people in the room, though, and it looks larger for it. He notes several nurses and two people dressed in the way common to the assistants to the Families. The ones who passed all the exams and tests as children, now trying to improve their skills enough to be invited to join the Families. There’s a couple of general technicians, too- but no doctors, and no sign of the patient. And they’re all on the other side, none of them having so much as glanced in his direction.  
  
Two more people walk into the room, and Seth stiffens as much as his bonds will let him. The first is a tall woman who carries herself like a princess, from the way she walks to the way she looks at everyone around her. She has long, straight brown hair and pale white skin, and there’s something in her gaze that makes Seth feel like a mouse before a hungry snake. She’s incredibly beautiful, it’s a strange meld of natural and artificial. He’s seen people who’ve had their entire faces redone, changing every feature down to the last dimple, and no matter how good the surgeon is, there’s always something distinctly artificial about the results. But she looks… oddly like a human bonsai, like someone started influencing her features when she was a child, to make them turn out differently than how they would naturally, but with some part of the original form remaining.  
  
He knows who she is, of course. Everyone in Stamford does. Lady Stephanie McMahon, fourth generation member of the Families. Richer than anyone but Seth’s father could imagine, from one of the older branches of the Families, which is a distinction in itself. Mother of three, with all of her daughters apparently set to take up the scalpel in their own right.  
  
For all intents and purposes, she is a princess.  
  
The man with her is her consort, a tall, heavily muscled man with a fully-shaved head and an almost-friendly grin. Lord Hunter Hearst Helmsley, a nobody from somewhere in New Hampshire who’d worked his way up with a combination of skill and charisma. He’d been invited to join the Families in his thirties, and he’d done so by marrying Stephanie. Now he was a father of three, a secure member of an incredibly prestigious family, and not a man to cross at all.  
  
If he could, Seth would be freaking out right now. He’d expected to be under the knife of one of their assistants- at the most, one of the children. Not anyone as prestigious as these two.  
  
But, upon reflection, they don’t seem to be there for him. Nobody in the other half of the room has so much as glanced his way, even though there’s still no sign of the patient. Maybe he’s just a coincidental observer.  
  
Barely a minute later, the arrival of five more people confirms it: two nurses, one assistant, and two young women garbed in hospital gowns. They look similar enough that they could be sisters- two tall, attractive girls in their late teens with long black hair and very pale skin. They’ve both evidently been drugged, because they walk as if in a dream, the nurses holding their hands and leading them into the room.  
  
He doesn’t recognise either of them, and he can’t see any stamps- though for all he knows, they could have been in the House for any amount of time. He could have been asleep for days- or even weeks, it’s not like he’d know.  
  
He can’t feel worried enough to shiver at that thought, but he’d like to.  
  
Instead, he focuses on what’s happening: the Lord and Lady leave the room, talking intently, and the nurses wheel over two implements from the various impedimenta placed against the wall: two chairs that resemble a cross between a dentist’s chair and a wheelchair. The chairs are placed together below a large lamp, and as Seth watches, some sort of device in the base of each chair attaches itself to the floor- evidently a precaution to stop the chair from moving around.

As Seth watches, both of the girls are guided toward a chair and pressed into the confines. Immediately, the nurses and attendants swarm around the chairs like bees, strapping them in securely, inserting needles connected to various tubes and containers into their arms, and fastening two odd devices around their necks.

The devices in question look like a cross between a bowl and a collar- a circular piece of glass (or something like it) with raised edges. Seth’s never seen anything like them before, but he has a pretty good idea of what they might be used for.

The Lord and Lady return, having shed their jackets and gloves, but their actions differ: he immediately joins the flock of nurses and assistants working over the patients, while she leans against one of the tables, arms folded, not saying anything.

It’s not long before the preparations are seemingly done. The assistants all look toward Lord Helmsley, who starts talking intently, making the occasional gesture. Under his surveillance, the assistants pick up some interesting tools: rather than the scalpels he’d expected them to start with, they go straight for the bone knives.

It’s rather a good thing, Seth reflects, that whatever he’s being injected with is stopping him from feeling anything, otherwise he would have thrown up everywhere. He’s never been good with surgery- things like assessing the cause of the problem or treating cuts and bruises, sure. But the sight of an opened body is too much for him. So in hindsight, it’s _definitely_ good that he didn’t do that well on the mandatory exams.

Still, he’d thought as a kid that at least then he’d likely never have to see anyone getting operated on, at least. And as the assistants neatly cut the top halves of each girl’s skulls off, set them- hair and all- on the surgical table and manoeuvre the overhead light to shine over their exposed brains, he silently hopes that he’ll never have to see anything like this again. 

But at the same time, he’s trapped by a solid helping of morbid curiosity. Half of him wants to just close his eyes and shut it all out, but the other half wants to see just what the fuck is going to happen to the poor girls. As the assistants talk with the Lord, the two halves of him silently war- and the morbidly curious half wins.

The discussion is less intent and more like a last-minute check to make sure that everyone agrees, as far as Seth can tell. The Lord picks up an implement that resembles an inkwell and brush and steps over to the first patient.

The liquid he paints onto the brain must be ink of some kind, and Seth sees him making careful strokes, outlining specific areas. He repeats the process with the second patient, and from what Seth can tell, he’s outlining the same areas of each brain. Once he’s done, he picks up a scalpel and a pair of forceps and cuts into the first patient’s brain, carefully and slowly excising a piece. A nurse steps up to him with a small dish, and he places the piece carefully within it, along with the scalpel and forceps. He then steps across to the second patient and repeats his actions, removing what looks to Seth like an identical piece of the brain. With that piece on a similar dish, he carries it over to the first patient and slides the piece into the hole he’d left earlier. Then he repeats the action with the first piece and the second patient’s brain.

Seth’s morbidly curious half is seriously reconsidering all its life choices. And as Lord Helmsley continues, choosing seemingly random parts of the brain, cutting pieces out of them and moving them between the patients, Seth wishes he could throw up. It doesn’t feel right, to be watching something so utterly grotesque and not being able to feel a reaction.

It takes a disturbingly long time, and Seth is silently wishing that someone would knock him out, but finally the operation is considered done. A quick application of vitae and the brains look almost seamless. The assistants reattach the top of the skulls, and apart from some stitches, the patients look almost normal.

Seth has no idea what the intent of the surgery was, but somehow he doesn’t think that the patients will be feeling anything close to normal when they wake up.

Still, at least it’s not him.

As if she somehow heard his thought, the Lady turns her head away from the clean up and directly toward Seth. She says something, and one of the assistants scuttles away from the mass and toward Seth.

A pang of alarm springs to life in his chest, and a second later, it occurs to him that the drugs are wearing off.

That’s probably not a good thing.

The assistant, a plump, older woman with dark hair and nervous eyes, reaches whatever it is that’s holding Seth and ducks around the back. Seconds later, he hears her exclamation. “What the hell? That can’t be right…”

She steps around to the front, looking at him intently. Lacking the ability to do almost anything else, Seth blinks at her, and though he knows it’s stupid, he automatically tries to lift a hand to acknowledge her presence. His fingers barely twitch in response, but it’s enough to make her eyes go wide with alarm.

She frantically darts around the back, muttering something he can’t make out. Seconds later, he feels the injectors twitch, and unconsciousness rolls over him like a tidal wave.

 

 

 

 

“…ridiculous… …unusual resilience…”

It’s like he’s at the bottom of the ocean, but someone’s slowly pulling him up and out.

“…why would… …some tests and…" 

He knows that voice.

“…is he again?”

He doesn’t know that voice, but there’s something… weird about it. It’s unusual, carrying odd overtones.

“Uh, let me… …male, seventeen… …ancestry, upper-class… surname Rollins.”

“Rollins? Any… … _the_ Rollins?”

“Yes, this is… …step-son, technically…”

“…wife’s by-blow?”

“I believe so.”

“Well, that explains a… …children with a resistance… common drugs.”

“Speaking of which-”

“He’s not waking up _again?_ ”

“Uh…”

“Oh, for the love of…”

Seth can almost see the light, but before he can surface, the water sucks him down again, plunging him back into the darkness’ secure grip.

It’s a long time before he wakes up.

 

 

 

 

“Administer the Queen serum, Nikki,” Lady McMahon orders. 

Nodding and murmuring “Yes, my lady” under her breath, Nikki picks up the vial gingerly. Even after three years as Lady McMahon’s tech assistant, she’s still nervous when it comes to this particular substance.

Admittedly, part of it is because she still has no idea what the hell is in it, but that applies to nearly everyone. The only people who do are Lady McMahon, Lord Helmsley, and Vickie- Lady McMahon’s personal assistant. Nikki’s just a tech, not a real doctor. She’s never actually performed a surgery, she just handles the various pieces of equipment- including the vial she’s holding now, the one containing a particularly viscous purple liquid.

The Queen serum. Just looking at it makes her hand shake a little. It’s one of Lady McMahon’s best-known creations, and it helped her make a name for herself outside of her father’s works. And for good reason, too. There have been many efforts made to create methods of turning ordinary people into mindless, loyal drones that will do anything that is asked of them, but none that work quite so efficiently as the Queen serum. So it’s probably a good thing that very few people actually know what’s in it, and it’s _definitely_ a good thing that Lady McMahon has somehow ensured that it will only work for her.

Nikki slides the vial into the syringe’s holder, checks to ensure that the fit is exact, and then carefully injects the serum into the boy’s arm. She vaguely remembers this subject- this isn’t the first test of his that she’s been at. She’s not the Lady’s only assistant, of course, so for all she knows, this could be his hundredth test.

She nods to the Lady, who turns to her recorder, Tori, and starts to dictate. “Subject Alpha Domino Six, final test. It has been three months since the subject’s initial surgery, which was initiated as stated in the first record. Since then, subject has improved…”

Nikki tunes the speech out. She hears nearly-identical speeches multiple times a day, and most of the time she doesn’t give enough of a fuck to pay attention. This one’s no different- the subject has a nearly unbreakable grip, shows greatly improved climbing ability, and is much stronger, but less of the ‘deadlifting stone blocks’ and more of the ‘manipulating things he holds’. They’ve also improved his natural resistance to common drugs and toxins, because the Lady felt like it. But the initial improvements were a request from some doctor in California who the Lady owed a favour, which is probably why the Lady doesn’t show much enthusiasm for the task. At least this is the viability test, and after that the subject won’t be their problem anymore.

By the time the Lady is done speaking, the serum has taken effect and it’s time for the test to begin. She turns the subject and says clearly, “Begin. Proceed from this location to the furthest point you can reach, moving in a straight line.” 

Like clockwork, the subject begins moving.

This time, the chosen location is part of an area in a downtrodden, almost-empty part of Stamford. The Families had easily commandeered it for testing years ago, and the experiments mostly hadn’t got out of hand. Well, they hadn’t got out of hand to the extent that anyone who mattered had been affected.

This particular part is the ruins of two old houses, built of stone. One house had collapsed onto the other, leaving both of them unfit for habitation- a mess of still-standing walls and rubble. The area could have been cleared and new buildings built, but nobody cared enough. Nikki imagines that squatters had likely dwelled where the walls stood, before the area had been zoned off. 

They’re standing where the walls had originally fallen, staring out at the scrabble of debris and the remains of walls. It’s a mess that Nikki wouldn’t want to try crossing unless she absolutely had to- as stable as it looks, she has no doubt that one wrong step would make the debris shift, leading to a twisted or broken ankle.

The subject isn’t the least daunted, though- not that he can be, with the serum. Nikki’s never had it in her system, but she’s heard the descriptions of those who have, who said it’s like a voice resounding through your body, one that repeats the instructions constantly until there’s no other possibility in your head. It moves your body for you, tapping into your knowledge of what the Lady asks to make you do what she wants. And there’s no possibility of resistance, because the only thing you can think of is doing what she asked. Even this subject, with its resistance to drugs and other substances, can’t fight against it.

She’d never admit it, but the Queen serum has featured in some of her worst nightmares.

At least she has a good distraction. The subject darts across the rubble, barely turning a hair, and jumps up to a broken section of wall. He grabs it with only one hand, but he doesn’t need both hands, not with the augmentation the Lady’s done. He’s been able to grab a slippery railing with one hand and keep himself suspended for an hour without turning a hair. He’s not the strongest she’s seen, but his grasp- no pun intended- of leverage is second to none. As she watches, he pulls himself up the wall and carefully steps across shifting pieces of stone, toward where the roof fell.

He really is an interesting prototype. It’s a shame the Lady doesn’t have any interest in him. If she hadn’t owed the doctor a favour, she likely never would have touched him. She’ll probably just ship him off as soon as this test’s done.

The Lady snaps more orders, and Nikki takes the opportunity to go over her equipment. She doesn’t really need to, but a good tech takes every instance she can to make sure that everything’s working. It takes up enough time that the practical part of the test is done by the time she’s finished, and the Lady is carefully examining the subject’s hands and arms, occasionally dictating notes to Tori. From the brusqueness of her tone, Nikki can tell that she’s just about done with the whole thing, and all in all, it’s a relief when the test is officially concluded. When the Lady’s not happy about something, she tends to spread it around.

“Pack up, Nikki,” the Lady orders. “Tori, I want those results off to California by the end of the day. Once you get the results, see if that annoyance wants it or not. If he doesn’t, ship it to the Institute, understand?”

“Yes, my lady,” Tori says with a quick duck of her head.

“Good,” the Lady mutters. “I’ve got better things to do. This is just a waste of my time.”  
  
Well, that’s that, then.  


  
  
  
He’s aware long before he’s actually awake. Sounds filter into his consciousness: the strong wind that tears around the carriage, snatches of overheard conversations, and the noise of animals- the neigh of the occasional horse, the chirps of birds, and the assorted sounds that the various carriers make.  
  
Even with the drugs holding him under, there’s something so _clean_ about the sounds, so natural and untainted. He relaxes against his bonds, feeling the bio-injectors dig in a little deeper as time passes.  
  
Despite the sounds and sensations that reach him, he doesn’t wake up, his suspended animation lasting for what seems like hours. The carriage moves, carrying him along with it, and Seth’s awareness fades until some time later, when the carriage has stopped and a harsh voice speaks loudly from a short distance away.  
  
“Who’s this from?”  
  
“Uh, says here… McMahon. Great.” This voice isn’t _quite_ as harsh, but it’s not friendly.  
  
“Which one?”  
  
“The bitchy one.”  
  
“That’s not narrowing it down, John.”  
  
“Stephanie.”  
  
“Oh. Fan-fucking-tastic.”

“OK, let’s see… prototype is no longer useful… not a legal adult for some time… therefore he’s now our problem.”  
  
“Remind me to write her a really _nice_ thank-you letter.”  
  
“This _is_ your job, DJ.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. So who’s this fucker?”  
  
“Some dipshit kid who got drunk and hit a cop. And now he’s got magic hands.”  
  
“Great. Why isn’t he awake?”  
  
“Apparently he’s resistant to most drugs, so they… gave him enough to kill an adult. Because that’s logic.”

“Then give him the narshould.”

  
Seth barely takes any of this in, the sounds fading through his brain, when the bio-injectors twitch and something new spreads through him. It’s akin to the feeling of drinking cold water on a hot day, that same chill. But this chill seems to spread, moving throughout his body down to his fingertips. As it moves, it slowly brings him back to consciousness, and as his eyes open, he feels truly awake for the first time in what feels like years.  
  
He starts registering his surroundings, trying to get a grip on his location: he’s in the back of a carriage that could hold four, but only holds him. He’s being restrained, held against the wall by a set of restraints that look different from the normal ones. Little freedom of movement, but that’s normal.  
  
He hauls in a deep breath, holding it as he realises something: he not only has no idea _where_ he is, he also has no idea _when_ he is.  
  
The last memory he has a strong grip on is being in the carriage en route to the McMahon manor. Then…  
  
Then… something. He remembers fuzzy images- an operating theatre, two people with exposed brains, staring at his hands, climbing up a broken wall…  
  
His hands. He looks down, trying to get them into his view, but the restraints won’t let him.  
  
“Give me a sec,” the less harsh voice says. Seth hears some rustling, then a thud, and the restraints come loose, dropping him unceremoniously onto the carriage floor. It hurts, but he doesn’t notice- once he pushes himself up, he’s too busy examining his hands.  
  
Which have… well. Not _grown_ , obviously. But they are bigger. Much bigger. Maybe one and a half times their normal size. His arms are visibly muscled, too, and when he experimentally prods his bicep, his finger bounces off.  
  
“You awake, kid?” the voice enquires, and Seth looks up. In front of him are two men- one half inside the carriage, the other standing outside, glaring at a letter in his hand. Both look similar- middle-aged, balding, both looking like one-man bar fights. But now that he’s looking at them, he recognises them both.  
  
_Shit._  
  
He starts to speak, but the words come out as a garbled mess from his dry mouth. One of the men mutters something and hands him a bottle of water, which Seth drinks from greedily, spilling a lot of it. His thirst assuaged, Seth looks back at them. “Professor Zandig? Lord Hyde?”  
  
The men look at each other, and then one of them starts laughing, the look on the other man’s face spurring him onward. The other man looks at Seth and sighs. “You’re right, kid. Don’t take it personally- he just thinks it’s funny that someone’s actually calling me professor.” He looks back and snarks, “It’s not like anyone respects this asshole enough to seriously call him Lord, anyway.”  
  
The laughing man straightens up and attempts to look stern. “Just call me Doctor Hyde, kid. Nobody calls me Lord unless they want something.”  
  
Seth knows about these two. Hyde was like Helmsley- another nobody who’d climbed the ranks and been adopted into the Families, but instead of marrying into an established branch, he’d become one of the loose ends. He’d settled in Camden, New Jersey, a notoriously untamed shithole, and under his reign it had become an even more notorious, somewhat better organised shithole. Zandig had never been an apprentice to the Families- instead, he’d been a professor at one of the big universities, but he’d left under a dark cloud. Since then he’d been Hyde’s partner in crime. Ordinarily a member of the Families allying with someone under a cloud would be problematic, but since Hyde was a loose end and had settled in Camden, which was not a city anyone cared about, nobody had said much… in public. What had been said in private was a whole other question, but it’s not one that Seth’s going to be asking any time soon.  
  
Seth looks up at them and asks the first thing to come to mind. “Where am I? Is this Camden?”  
  
Both men nod.  
  
“When… what’s the date?”  
  
Hyde consults his watch. “4:30 PM, Sunday, September 19, 1965.”  
  
September. He’s been out for more than three months- three and half, at best estimation.  
  
Three and a half months.  
  
More than a hundred days.  
  
Evidently the look on his face is communicating some of the horror he feels, because Zandig puts a hand on his shoulder. “How long?”  
  
“Three and a half months,” Seth says, dazed.  
  
Zandig grimaces. “Shit. Still, could be worse. Remember that kid who came out of it after a year, Hyde?”  
  
“That was bad,” Hyde agrees. “Look, kid, there’s no point in sitting around feeling like shit. Come see your new home. Then we’ll figure out what the fuck to do with you.”  
  
It sounds ominous, but it’s not like he has any other options. Still dazed, Seth nods and climbs out of the carriage, trying to calm himself down.  
  
They’re in a parking lot. It’s a very big lot, sandwiched between a huge stone wall and a bigger building. The other vehicles in the lot are the usual assortment of carriers and carriages, with a couple of enormous creations that must be used for large quantities of goods. The gate in the wall is firmly shut, and Seth can’t see any way of opening it, but there’s a ramp leading up to a very large door in the wall of the building.  
  
“You’re in the Institute,” Zandig informs him. “That is, the Camden Institute For Progress And Research. Hyde started it a few years ago.”  
  
Hyde leads the way up the ramp. “Used to be the old policy was that when you were done with an experiment, or you had a prototype that stopped being useful, or you had one that went wrong somehow, well, people just offed them and that was that. Sometimes other doctors would borrow the experiment to study or something, but that was usually just buying a few more months, at the most. A lot of doctors couldn’t see why they’d keep around something they had no use for. Others were so paranoid that a rival would get their hands on their work that they’d off the experiment themselves, make the body unusable. There’s a few who did their best to keep them alive out of sympathy, but social pressure takes over. People start thinking that the experiment’s a way to get to them. Whatever the reason, they’d end up dead. And I thought, shit, what a waste. So much effort put in, so many innovations- tossed aside, just like that.”  
  
“He’s all heart,” Zandig comments.  
  
“So I started the Institute,” Hyde says with a shrug as he moves to a panel near the door, his hands moving. “People send their discarded experiments to me- well, the paranoid ones still off them, but there’s nothing I can do about that- and I find something they can do with their lives. Sometimes there’s jobs they can do, sometimes there’s doctors they can work with.”  
  
“That’s… very kind of you,” Seth replies, his mind whirling.  
  
“Call it being practical, kid,” Hyde replies. “The way I see it, this way everyone wins, and the Empire’s better off for it.”  
  
“Still,” Seth manages.  
  
Hyde doesn’t respond. The big doors slide open, and the trio walk inside.  
  
Seth wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but the hallways they walk through are packed with labs and surgeries, with a couple of assessment rooms. Zandig sees his curious glance and explains. “The thing about having all the former experiments and prototypes here is that a lot of them need a lot of medical help, so we keep doctors here to make sure nobody dies from stupid causes. And the labs are because a lot of the prototypes have a lot to teach us.”  
  
Seth manages a nod, but his legs are starting to feel like lead, and his head is swimming.  
  
Zandig frowns. “Hang on. Hyde, we might have to give him the tour later. He’s about to drop.”  
  
Seth, clutching the wall for support, takes a deep breath, opens his mouth to reply and passes out.  
  


 

  
“…on, I know you’re awake.” A hand shakes Seth’s shoulder lightly.  
  
Seth, coming out of unconsciousness like a nearly-drowned man tossed onto a beach by a stray wave, mumbles something incoherent and groans.  
  
“Seriously, get up already,” the voice says, sounding annoyed.  
  
Seth hauls his eyes open and grunts something even more incoherent. As far as he’s concerned, mornings are for other people. Preferably the ones who are really far away from him.  
  
“Finally.”  
  
As the world swims into focus, Seth sits up and rubs his eyes. He blinks some more and looks around, finally able to take in the world around him.  
  
The room he’s in is a typical dorm room- two beds, two closets, a bookshelf on each side and a desk and chair. A rug is on the floor, and a foldable screen divides the room in half. Everything looks perfectly serviceable, but plain and cheap. He’s seen rooms like this before, but never lived in one. One advantage to having a billionaire father- even the outcasts had a better quality of life than the general public.  
  
The boy sitting on his bed looks like a much younger hero from a ridiculous romance novel. He’s tall, pale, slender, with aristocratic features and short blond hair. There’s something cold and aloof about his face, but he’s very handsome despite that. He has a strong German accent, but his words are clear, though a touch hesitant.  
  
“Where am I? When am I?” Seth asks, his voice rough.  
  
“You’re in the Institute. You remember the Institute, right?”

Seth nods.

“Good. This is your new room, where you live now.”  
  
“Oh,” Seth replies blankly. “What day is it?”  
  
“Tuesday,” his roommate says. “It’s just after ten AM, I think.”  
  
“Shit,” Seth mutters. Another day gone, just like that. “Who the fuck are you?”  
  
“I’m your roommate,” the other boy replies. “My name is Axel Dieter, Jr.”  
  
“Seth Rollins,” Seth replies. Axel doesn’t offer a hand, and after thinking about it for a second, Seth doesn’t either.  
  
“You should get up,” Axel informs him. “We’ve both been ordered to report to Doctor Hyde’s office at eleven AM. You must be hungry.”  
  
At the thought of food, Seth’s stomach rumbles. “Yeah. Definitely.”  
  
“Bathroom’s through there,” Axel says, pointing to a door in the middle of the opposite wall. “There’s clothes in your dresser.” He turns and walks away without another word.  
  
Seth hauls himself out of bed, grimacing at his rumpled clothes. He walks into the bathroom and finds it small, but adequate. Once he’s showered, he investigates his dresser and finds it stocked with clothes that are plain, but the right size, thankfully. He dresses himself, already feeling better, and runs a hand through his damp hair.  
  
“Come on,” Axel says shortly, gesturing. Seth follows him outside, and finds himself in a corridor lined with wooden doors. Each has a placard on it, with a number and two sets of initials written on it. The one on the door they’d emerged from reads ‘5C, S.R., A.D.J’.  
  
Axel leads the way to a stairwell. As they walk down the stairs, Seth glances curiously at each floor. They seem much the same, but there’s a strange absence of other people. Before he can ask, Axel speaks, his voice brusque. “The others are either in school, out on their jobs, or talking with their doctors.”

Seth shrugs, a little startled by the prescience.

  
When they reach the lowest floor, Axel leads the way down a few corridors and into a large hall. It’s large, spacious, with big shuttered windows to let in light and air, though for the most part, the shutters are closed. There are four rows of long, heavy tables, while the far wall is lined with smaller tables that likely hold a buffet at mealtimes. Two swinging doors at one end of the far wall lead into what’s probably the kitchen.  
  
Several people in plain uniforms are sweeping the floor. There are industrious noises coming from the kitchen, while at the buffet, what are probably the leftovers from breakfast have been amassed at the near end. Seth can see several bowls of fresh fruit, some rolls, and what looks like porridge.  
  
Only a few of the tables are occupied, mostly by adults. A couple of younger people sit quietly at a table, busily eating. One of them catches Seth’s eye- a young woman with a pair of wings emerging from her back. They’re surprisingly small, lacking feathers- all bone and black skin, like bat wings.  
  
Axel coughs, nudging him, and Seth shakes himself and follows the other boy over to the leftovers. He collects a bowl of porridge and an apple and follows Axel to an unoccupied table, away from the others.  
  
The food is good, but he’s hungry enough that he barely tastes it. Seth wolfs it down and sits back to digest, breathing hard.  
  
Axel’s sitting alongside him, not opposite him. He pulls something out of a pocket- a map and a key, both of which he sets down on the table. He unfolds the map, and looks at Seth. “Here. So you know how to find your way.”  
  
Seth peers down at the map, taking in the details. The Institute seems to be divided into four buildings that are arranged in the form of a square, with each building being one of the corners. The space in the middle seems to be some sort of park joining them all.  
  
Axel points to each building in turn, starting with the top left. “Storerooms, school and major theatres.” Top right: “Admin and labs.” Bottom left: “Blue dorms.” Bottom right: “Red dorms.” Before Seth can ask, he continues. “Blue dorms- where we are now- are for people who are normal-sized and don’t need medical assistance all the time. Red dorms are for the other people.” He jerks his head in the direction of the girl with bat wings. “Like her.”  
  
Seth nods. Everyone’s seen people like her, the ones who can’t really be called human anymore. Mostly when people get augmented for fun, they go for the minor changes- different-coloured eyes or hair or sometimes skin; a little taller or shorter, more muscled or thinner. Generally the most radical they go for is something like blue hair or purple eyes. Then you get the unusual ones, the ones with wings or patches of scales, or who are freakishly tall or have multiple arms. They’re usually the ones who want to look unique for whatever reason, or who have parents with… ideas.  
  
But then there’s the ones who are _really_ different. The ones who are barely recognisably human, or who have been really fucked up. They’re the ones who wound up on the wrong side of someone’s knife- former experiments or punished criminals, for the most part. Like him, in fact, though Seth supposes that someone charitable might pass his hands off as a genetic quirk. The only other cases he’s heard of were those who managed to really annoy certain organised crime groups, the rare ones who have a skilled surgeon on hand, and they’re mostly messy and very obvious, not intended to last long.  
  
The key is blue, and has 5C etched into it. Seth pockets it, nodding his thanks. Axel pulls an identical key out of his own pocket. “You and I each have one. Admin has the master. Don’t lose it.”  
  
Seth nods again and looks back at the map. “Should we go to Admin now?”  
  
Axel gets up, not even bothering to answer, so Seth grabs the map and follows him.  
  
The open space is indeed a park. It’s a surprisingly normal one, in fact. It has benches and shrubs and a large fountain at the centre, and people are walking along its gravel paths. Axel checks his watch and sets a brisk but not overly speedy pace, crossing the quadrangle quickly with Seth on his heels.  
  
The admin building is just the way Seth remembers it, and it’s not far to their destination. They wind up waiting outside for a few minutes, but it’s not long before Hyde summons them both inside.  
  
Hyde’s office is nothing like the formal structure Seth was expecting. He’s got a big desk covered in ink-smeared pieces of paper and several heavy paperweights, along with bookshelves stuffed full of books, folders and assorted papers. He’s also got a rather long couch covered with of some kind of hide and three chairs in front of the desk. All three of them have a biological restraint system attached to the arms, like the kind used in the carriages, and Seth flinches involuntarily when he sees them.  
  
Hyde barely looks up from the book he’s writing in. “Oh, good. Sit down.” He gestures toward the couch, not the chairs, thankfully.  
  
Once Seth and Axel are seated, Hyde comments, “We’re waiting on more people. When they get here-”  
  
There’s another knock on the door, and when it opens, Seth is surprised, to say the least. The two girls who enter seem familiar. They look like they stepped out of some horror folktale, with their snow-pale skin and pitch-black hair. They’re not identical, though. They look similar enough that they could be sisters, and there’s an odd synchronicity to the way they move, like they’ve practiced walking in unison a billion times.  
  
Hyde nods to them and gestures at the couch. The girls sit down in perfect unison, and they don’t say anything until the next knock on the door.  
  
The next person to come in is… a character, to say the least. She’s too tall to be a child, but everything else about her points to her being one. Her tangled black hair hides her face, but Seth can see smears of paint, similar to the assorted marks on her exposed skin, which range from scrawled words to macabre art. She wears a red and black dress with torn hems, and she carries a dirty, beaten-up rabbit doll, holding it by the throat.

Hyde barely looks up, instead jabbing a thumb toward the couch. The newcomer turns away from him, and when she sees the twins, she lifts a hand and pushes her hair away from her face, revealing a broad smile and mismatched eyes- one red and one black. When she speaks, her accent is low and Canadian, sounding older than Seth expected. “Sisters…”

Seth’s too distracted by her accent to pay attention to the words. One of the enemy, this far south? Maybe she’s a former spy. Or maybe she’s an immigrant. She obviously wouldn’t be here if Hyde and Zandig hadn’t broken her, enthralled her or otherwise ensured her loyalty, but Seth still has the urge to snarl something patriotic.

“Rose,” the girl on the right says warmly, her accent English. Rose clambers onto the couch beside her and wraps her arms around the other girl, holding onto her tightly.

Seth barely has time to react when the final knock comes. The first person to enter the room is almost entirely concealed behind baggy clothing, excepting their glasses and long, burgundy-red hair. They sit down in one of the chairs without being asked, arms folded across their chest defensively. The other…

Seth barely makes it to a standing position before he’s hugged tightly enough that all the breath goes out of him. He manages to pull away enough to breathe, tears coming to his eyes.

It’s Dean. But…

_Jesus Christ._

The lower half of his face and most of his throat is just… gone. The front of his neck has been replaced with something that looks almost like metal- dull silver with twists of pink, flowing into the skin seamlessly. His mouth and jaw have been replaced with more metal, the mouth resembling a misshapen beartrap, complete with the spikes. There’s more metal beneath it in a crude simulation of a jaw, but together, the combination is terrifying.

“Dean?” Seth manages finally. “Is… is that you?”

Dean nods, his eyes welling up.

Hyde coughs loudly. “Reunite on your own time, kids.”

Dean doesn’t protest, instead sitting down in one of the chairs, alongside the redheaded person. Seth glares at Hyde, but sits back down.

“Good. Now that you’re all here,” Hyde begins, “let’s get this done. I’ve invited the seven of you here because John and I have had some thoughts about what you’d be good at.”

Seth is momentarily confused by who John is, until the door opens and Zandig enters, mouthing something to Hyde as he takes his position next to his colleague.

“All of you have notable skills. Alone, you’d be pretty good, but it’s our thought that as a team, you’d be even better.” Hyde leans back in his chair and points to the redhead. “To start with, you have Veda. One of those brats from up north wanted to see if he could make a human battery, but he didn’t really have much of a goal in mind except making a human who he could shock repeatedly without killing them. He did a better job than anyone thought, and it had some interesting results. Turns out all that power can speed her up enough that it’s like stopping time for everyone else. Clever little fuck, even if he is a cunt.”

Seth notes that as Hyde speaks, Veda flinches back in her chair, almost getting swallowed by her engulfing clothes. He winces in sympathy.

Zandig points to Dean. “Dean here decided to mouth off to one of the McMahon brats. She didn’t like that, so she took his voice.”

Seth’s eyes widen in horror, and a gasp escapes his mouth.

“But, she gave it back- with a catch. Show them, Dean,” Hyde orders him.

Dean presses a finger to his new jaw. A second later, Seth senses something that feels like the sound of a swarm of bees, echoing through his bones. It resonates through his body, and a second later, he realises that it’s actually words- but he’s feeling them, not hearing them, and yet somehow they still make sense: _It makes a great weapon, too._

Hyde glares, and Dean shrugs. _…and I’m not using it as a weapon anywhere near the Institute, I know._

“Good,” Hyde says pointedly. He turns to Axel. “A certain Lady who I won’t name decided she wanted a human lie detector. Of course, she fucked it up, because she’s a fucking idiot. So instead-”

“-she made me able to pick up on and read body language, to the point that I can guess what people are going to say or ask before they speak,” Axel replies, sounding bored. “It’s hardly as fun as it sounds.”

Hyde nods, and points to Seth. “Seth here got some improved hands. Unbreakable grip, which is more versatile than it sounds, especially when it comes to climbing and surveillance. His overall agility has been significantly enhanced, and he's resistant to most common drugs and toxins.”

Seth looks down at his hands awkwardly.

“Our last three are all products of Lord Helmsley’s pet obsession,” Zandig says. “He’s spent years trying to find whatever it is that constitutes what people call the soul, the spirit, the personality, whatever. And one of his experiments is Rosemary, who has… how many is it now?”

“Eight,” Rosemary replies, detaching herself from the English girl. Her voice abruptly changes, becoming higher, her accent changing to American. “Because of course that idiot couldn’t restrain himself.”

Seth blinks.

“Doctor Ford,” Hyde says. “I should have guessed.”

Rosemary makes an annoyed face. “Helmsley’s all show, no substance. He seriously thought that filling some girl’s head with other people would impress the other Families! If he’d just realised that no prototype that relies on the other minds being deceased would work-”

“As you can see,” Hyde says, “Lord Helmsley managed to transfer other minds into this subject. But a number of factors made the results… not satisfactory, shall we say.”

Rosemary’s posture changes, her eyes widening, filling with malicious glee. “He means I tried to cut his fucking throat. And he deserved it.” This new voice has a strong English accent, with touch of pure malevolence.

“Knock it off, Marty,” Zandig says, sounding bored.

Rosemary snarls, but she slumps, seeming almost hesitant as she returns to what passes for normal. “…we’re sorry. We didn’t mean to interrupt.” She sits back down on the couch, holding her rabbit to her chest, her head down.

“It’s all right,” Hyde says almost gently. He then returns to addressing the room. “Rosemary’s other minds have a lot of knowledge that will help you. And before anyone asks, she was born here. Her parents were Canadian immigrants. She’s not an enemy.”

“Finally, we have…”

“Before he says anything,” the English girl says flatly, “we’re not twins. Or sisters.”

“We’re not even related,” the other girl says. Her accent is also American.

“We just look similar, which is why he-”

“-picked us for this. Superficial fucker.”

“But they were also operated on by Helmsley,” Zandig adds.

“Which is why they’re our sisters,” Rosemary chimes in, her head still down.

“He cut parts of their brains out and swapped them,” Hyde says, sounding almost interested.

“So we can-”

“-hear each other’s thoughts, and know what-”

“-we’re both doing, and finish each other’s-”

“-sentences, but before you ask, no-”

“-we can’t turn it off.”

“More importantly,” Hyde says, “Paige and Priscilla both know what’s happening to the other, and they can pass messages over long distances.”

Well. That does sound useful, Seth thinks.

“So what are we meant to be doing?” Veda asks from somewhere within her cocoon of clothing, her voice muffled. “Why make this team?”

“Good question,” Hyde says. “Look, Camden is… it’s not the most law-abiding city, shall we say.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“And I’ve done my best to keep the law enforcement here well-funded, well-equipped and heavily manned. But every so often, things happen that they’re not really prepared to deal with. There’s a difference between breaking up bar fights, catching thieves and dealing with domestic murders, and trying to take down some moron’s home-grown monster after it breaks free and eats half a school.”

Seth blinks. “Does that happen a lot?”

“Often enough that it’s a concern,” Hyde replies. “So what you will be doing is handling those cases, when they occur. I’m not asking you to single-handedly do all the investigating, apprehending and slaughtering yourselves, but I am asking you to look into specific cases and pass on whatever you find to both me and the authorities. I won’t lie, you may well end up fighting criminals. You may get injured- or even killed, in the worst circumstances. But you will have my full backing if you manage to pull this off without fucking things up spectacularly. You’ll get paid, you’ll have a lot of resources, and you’ll be able to go wherever you want within Camden.”

Rosemary speaks up. “Also, one of our minds was a skilled doctor. You met her, just now.”

“Exactly,” Hyde says. “So you do have a medic as part of your team, as well as access to the doctors here if you need them.”

He leans in. “So, who’s in?”

There’s a long pause as everyone considers the question, and then Veda speaks. “I’m in. But you know I can’t be on the clock all the time…”

“Not an issue,” Hyde says.

Dean’s metallic teeth click, and he presses a finger to his jaw. _Sure. Sounds like fun._

Paige and Priscilla turn their heads in unison. “We’ll do it.”

“As will we,” Rosemary says, cuddling her rabbit.

Axel shrugs. “I suppose I’ll try my hand at this.”

Everyone turns to Seth.

He takes a deep breath, considering his options, and then looks up and nods. “I’m in.”

 


End file.
